


10. Fool's hope

by tveckling



Series: Dare to Write challenge [65]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: (And Leon too out of it to even think properly), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: When there's no one else around there's nothing to do but accept that you were the one who fucked up. And this time, Leon thinks, he fucked up good.





	10. Fool's hope

When there's no one else around there's nothing to do but accept that you were the one who fucked up. And this time, Leon thinks, he fucked up good.

He thinks it's been somewhere around a week since he lost contact with Hunnigan—lately he's been unconscious more than he's been awake, and there's no way of telling how much time he's missed. Suits him well, when he was stupid enough to be so careless in a B.O.W. infected area. He should have known better than to take a call before making sure all of his surroundings was cleared.

His cellphone lies somewhere on the ground, far away, now. Even if he could walk he probably wouldn't be able to find it again. And with the state of his leg walking is as probable an action as him growing wings and taking off flying. Not going to happen.

Sighing he lets his head fall against the wall, and he stares up at the dark ceiling. "Guess this is the point to give up?" he asks, as though there's someone to answer him. But there's no one else, save some slowly rotting animal corpses. He's alone.

Finding the cottage was a stroke of rare good luck, and it'd taken most of what remaining strength he had to make his way into the relatively safe place. He knew there were buildings here and there, knew there had once been a smaller community of people living in these woods, but he hadn't thought he'd accidentally come across one of the old houses.

Of course, that was when his stroke of good luck ended.

After he collapsed he couldn't get up again, his leg ruined beyond what any willpower could push past, and lately he's discovered he's lacking the strength to even try getting up. There's no more healing herbs, no more food, no more water, nothing to keep him from slowly being drained of blood. At least he'll die before an infection sets in and kills him, he thinks and snorts.

But the thought is sobering. It's the first time he's allowed himself to think about it, the first time he's let himself consider his own death. The first time he admits to himself that he will die here, in an abandoned cottage somewhere in a haunted forest. And no one will know for sure what happened to him—if they ever even try to find out. He knows what the government's like, he knows what his own role is. The most likely scenario is that Hunnigan will contact their superiors who will declare him lost, and then whatever files still remain of him will be deleted. There will be no records of there ever having been an Agent Leon S. Kennedy.

A tremor runs through his body, and Leon can't stop it. There's not much left in him strong enough to try.

He thought he had resigned himself to such a fate a long, long time ago. Apparently he'd been wrong. It's impossible to tell how many times, how many sleepless, endless nights he's spent imagining the ways he might die. He's never shied away from it, always made himself think of all the too real possibilities. It was supposed to make him get used to the idea, it was supposed to take the sting and fear and despair away.

So why is he crying?

Leon laughs, ignoring how it comes out more like a sob than anything else, and wipes his face with a hand he can barely summon the strength to move. He can't waste any tears, especially not on something as meaningless and childish as feeling sorry for himself. It's been days since he last had something to drink, and he knows he's not going to be able to go find something any time soon, so he has to  _ stop. _

But he can't. Instead the tears increase in volume and strength, and not even closing his eyes makes them stop. His hand falls down into his lap as he gives up, letting the sobs wreck his body. Letting the self-hatred swallow him as he feels his own helplessness choke him. He can't do anything to stop any of it.

He doesn't notice the tears stopping, doesn't notice his consciousness slipping, doesn't notice the time changing, not until he opens his eyes to see light shine through the windows. His face is dry, though his eyes still ache. Must have been out cold for several hours then. He's getting used to losing time.

There's a pool of blood beneath him, slowly, so very slowly becoming bigger. If he could he would try to lick it up—the thought of any sort of liquid, even his own damn blood, makes his chest clench. It's a damn good thing he can't move, he decides.

When he next opens his eyes it's distinctly darker. Leon's tired, so very tired. He doesn't want to be there, wants to be home in his own apartment that he gets to spend all too little time in. He wants to rest in the bed he spent so much time and money looking for until he found the one that was  _ perfect _ . He wants to hear the buzzing of a busy city outside his bedroom window, the buzzing of a city that never sleeps or goes silent. The laughter, shouting, singing, the cars and buses, the various sirens—all of it would mix together to lull him into a relaxed state, into sleep, into dreaming of a world where the silence wasn't broken only by mindless screeching.

Silence stopped being peaceful for Leon a long, long time ago.

It takes too much effort to keep his eyes open, so he closes them. Wonders how long it will take before he manages to open them again. Wonders if he will open them again. Wonders if he wants to open them again.

The thought creeps into his mind unbidden, before he realizes it, before he can stop it. He doesn't want to die. He wants someone to find him, to help him, to  _ save him. _

The annoyance rises immediately. He's been fighting for more than half his life, he  _ knows _ that every mission he goes on might be his last, just like it has been so many others'. How can he let himself wish to be saved, taken away, out of danger, when countless others didn't get that mercy? When he himself has taken that mercy from so many?

Besides, it's not like anyone will be looking for him. He's expendable, just another nameless agent. No one will notice he's gone, much less miss him. He knows no one will come.

But still he can't stop himself from wishing, as he feels himself fall once more. Can't stop himself from hoping. For  _ someone _ .

He fades into darkness with that tightness clenching his heart. 

_ He's drifting, emerged in dry water that gently rocks him, staring up at a pitch-black sky. There's no pain, no weariness, only the sensation of being safe and cared for, protected, so he closes his eyes and lets the water rock him. Somewhere in the distance he thinks he hears voices—sometimes he thinks he can hear his own name. It feels like he should wake up, like he needs to pay attention, like there's something he needs to remember. The voices don't sound calm, though they sound familiar. _

_ Maybe he should open his eyes again, try to see who it is that's talking to him. He already knows there's nothing but darkness around him, and he feels so comfortable like this. But there's something nagging at him, telling him to move, to listen, to think, to  _ ** _do _ ** _ something. So he opens his eyes. _

The light is unexpected, hurts his eyes and makes him blind for a moment. And then he blinks again, and he sees a face, white skin and brown hair and brown eyes that widen as they look down at him. Leon recognizes Chris Redfield just as the man gives him a smile that makes his chest clench with pure relief.

"Hey, you're awake. I'm- it's good to see you. Don't worry about anything, just go back to rest. I got you now, and I'm getting you out of here. You're safe."

Chris is carrying him, Leon realizes belatedly. His head is resting against Chris' shoulder, and he feels Chris' arms around him. He feels  _ safe _ .

With a soft sigh Leon relaxes and closes his eyes, sliding back into the welcoming darkness.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Considering writing a part B from Chris' POV but idk.... let me know what you guys think, if I should?


End file.
